Firsts
by Lady Eleanor Boleyn
Summary: Motherhood is full of firsts. This oneshot collection will follow Shelagh Turner and her daughter through a few of them.
1. Names

The shadow darkening her office door caught Sister Julienne's attention and she glanced up.

"Shelagh," she greeted the younger woman, rising with her hands outstretched, "How are you? Can I help?"

"Yes please, Reverend Mother," Shelagh was as softly-spoken as ever, but the fervour in her voice and her use of the title that only the other Sisters called Sister Julienne – the title she had stopped using when she laid aside her vows – told the older woman that something was wrong.

"What is it?" she asked, guiding Shelagh to a chair, "Is it your daughter? Is she ill? Not feeding well?"

"No, no, nothing like that... It's just...," Shelagh trailed off and looked down at her hands, which were clasped tightly in her lap. So tightly her knuckles went white.

Sister Julienne placed a hand on hers, "You know, child, talking about what concerns you is usually a healthy way to start dealing with it."

"There's just so much to do," Shelagh confessed, the words suddenly flooding out of her as though a dam had been broken, "With how quick the adoption was, we've barely anything ready. Not a Moses basket, not sterilised bottles, not terry cloths. Without the ones the agency gave us to see us through a day or two, I don't know what we'd do. The poor wee thing doesn't even have a name yet!"

By the time she had finished, she was gasping. Sister Julienne stroked her hand, "The Good Lord will see you through, Shelagh. He has a way of making His plan known in the most marvellous of ways. You know that. So trust in Him and do not lean on your own understanding. He will make your paths straight."

Shelagh nodded, blushing. "I'm sorry."

"You have nothing to be sorry for. Taking on a child that is not your own is a huge responsibility. It's only natural you should be feeling a little overwhelmed. But let's take things one step at a time. For instance, perhaps you could start by telling me what ideas you and Patrick have had for names?"

"Well that's the thing. He wants to name her something Celtic after me and I want to name her for his family. We can't even agree on that."

"Never mind. Close your eyes."

A little surprised, Shelagh did as she was told.

"Picture your daughter's face. What's the first thing that comes into your mind?"

"A rose. An early, just budding rose. Her skin has that sort of a colour to it."

"Have you and Patrick discussed Rose as a name?"

"It seems too ordinary...although...there is the Celtic name Roisin. It means 'Rose', but it's just that little bit different. That little bit more special. And it would please Patrick. He wants a Celtic name."

"There you have it then. Roisin. And what comes into your mind second when you think of your daughter?"

"How lucky I am to have her. She's a gift from God, I just know she is."

"A gift you deserve to be blessed with, Shelagh. A gift which will change your life forever. Just as the gift of roses and fruits Theophilius received from Heaven changed his."

Sister Julienne's voice was soft as she guided the younger woman through the thought process. She didn't have long to wait before the penny dropped.

"Theophilius was sent those heavenly fruits from St Dorothy. Dorothy. That's Patrick's mother's name."

"Then it seems to me that everything has fallen into place. The Good Lord has a way of making that happen," Sister Julienne smiled, withdrawing her hand from Shelagh's as the younger woman looked up, suddenly relaxed and beaming.

"Yes, Reverend Mother, He does," she replied, "He has answered my prayers for a child. In His mercy and goodness, He has blessed me with a daughter. With Roisin Dorothy Turner."


	2. Smile

Shelagh had just finished changing Roisin and was running her hand gently over her daughter's stomach, preparing to pick her up and carry her back into the kitchen where she could watch her while she got on with Timothy's tea, when the little girl suddenly grimaced, her face twisting unpleasantly.

Her face was twisting as it often did when she was about to start crying and Shelagh tensed. Her daughter wasn't an unholy terror, but her crying fits were no walk in the park for all that. They still sent stabs of guilt and anxiety through her very heart, especially when there seemed to be no reason for them.

"What's wrong, _Mo muirnín?"_ she whispered, scooping Roisin up.

"It's all right, Mummy's here. Mummy's here."

But the soft endearments did nothing to calm her baby, though they did cut off her wails before they could begin. Roisin continued to squirm in distress.

Shelagh put her back down to examine her more closely, and was rewarded with the sight of the little legs being pulled up repeatedly as though in a reflex.

Comprehension sparked.

"Ah. Mummy didn't burp you properly, did she not? Not to worry though, we'll soon have that sorted."

Putting one hand on her daughter's belly and the other on her right ankle, she hoisted her leg up and began to circle it expertly in the air. How many times had she done this with the babies in the clinic, some of whom were far more vocal about their discomfort than her little angel was? Gas was fine. Gas she could handle.

Having done the right leg, she did the left and then alternated several times before her daughter's mouth finally opened and she gave a loud belch, relaxing instantly.

Shelagh laughed and patted her daughter's cheek, "That's better. Better out than in, as Nurse Noakes would say. Come on, let's get your brother's tea."

She picked her daughter up again, her heart leaping when her daughter's lips suddenly twitched back upwards. That wasn't gas. It couldn't be, not after that huge belch just moments earlier. That was a smile. That was her first smile!

"Oh, well done, wee one! Well done! Mummy's so proud of you. So proud!"


	3. Restless Night

"Come on then, angel, back to bed," Shelagh murmured, patting her little girl's back as she walked over to the cot again, having just done the two o'clock in the morning feed, as she did every night. Ten, two and half six, regular as clockwork. Just right for a baby of Roisin's age.

Yet, though Roisin usually went back down with a minimum of fuss; was asleep in moments, or at most, a minute or two, something was different tonight. Tonight, she scrunched up her nose and whimpered as her mother tried to lay her down.

"What is it, hmm?" Shelagh, alert to every shift in her baby's mood, hurriedly picked her up again and tried burping her and cycling her legs. Usually, if Roisin was tetchy after a feed, then it meant she was particularly gassy.

But this time, no gas was forthcoming. Rather, Roisin only fussed more and more, kicking out her little legs, clearly attempting to free them from her mother's hold.

"Okay, then. It's not gas, is it? Are you too cold, is that it?"

Shelagh quickly swaddled her daughter more firmly and made to lay her down again, knowing that, if she didn't go down within half an hour or so, she would invariably need to move her bowels and therefore be even more irritable. A soiled or wet nappy was, if her wails were anything to go by, the worst thing that could possibly happen to Roisin.

"There, now. There's no need to make all that fuss, is there?" she murmured, "Mummy's here, I've got you, you're safe. Just go back to sleep, angel, there's a good girl."

She kept her voice deliberately low and soothing and her hand reassuringly on Roisin's back, but to no avail. As far as Roisin was concerned, there was a definite, though inexplicable to her mother, need to make a fuss. She refused to settle, whimpering and wriggling, kicking and resisting the swaddling clothes until her mother gave in and picked her up again.

"All right, madam. Let's see whether a wee walk might tire you out instead."

Putting a now unswaddled Roisin over her shoulder, Shelagh began to pace the room, bouncing her petulant little girl lightly in her arms, singing a soft Scottish lullaby in a murmur at the same time.

All of a sudden, however, she felt Roisin go rigid in her arms.

Swinging her expertly round to her front to watch her face as she rocked her, Shelagh knew that what she had dreaded most had come to pass. Roisin was now wide awake and straining to pass an awkward stool. Her little face was scrunched and red with effort.

Shelagh bounced her again, knowing extra movement sometimes helped.

Sure enough, her little girl's face was soon momentarily relieved, before she seemed to realise what had happened and her whimpers turned into full-blown wails of agony, wails that meant, "I need a new nappy and I need one NOW!"

"Hush, Roisin, hush. You shall have a new nappy, but don't wake Daddy or Timmy, hmm? Hush," Shelagh begged her little girl in a whisper.

Roisin, however, was having none of it. She roared repeatedly in frustration at how slow her mother was at obeying her 'commands', an action she continued all the while Shelagh was changing her, at the same time as thrashing irritably on the changing table, evidently in some considerable discomfort.

Even once she was dry and clean, she cried irritably, stopping and starting as her mother redressed her in her nightdress and continued to pace the room with her. She wriggled restlessly, making it clear that any attempt to put her back in her crib would be fruitless.

The only thing Shelagh could do was pace up and down the stairs with her, humming comfort in a hopeless litany.

Which was where Patrick found them when he got up to do the six-thirty feed.

"You're up early, ladies," he said in surprise, alarmed at the exhausted look Shelagh sent him.

"We haven't been to bed since two. This little lady decided she wanted to be miserable and stay awake, which of course kept me up too."

"Shelagh. You know you'll spoil her if you keep her in your arms too much. You should have let her cry it out," he tutted, reaching out for his still-wailing daughter.

"I know, but I couldn't just leave her, Patrick. She was so unhappy, and still is."

"My guess is, she's worked up such a hunger, she can't stop crying. Give her here and get yourself back to bed. I'll warrant that once she's eaten, she'll be out like a light. She's probably just hopelessly over-tired."

Patrick took his cranky daughter on to his hip and shooed Shelagh off up the stairs.

As she went, however, he called after her, "Shelagh?"

"Yes, Patrick?"

"Do you ever regret it? What we've done?"

"In taking her in? Never. We've given a lovely little girl a loving home and I will never regret that. This is just a bump in the road, that's all."

With that, Shelagh escaped up to bed, collapsing on to the cool of her pillow gratefully, even as Roisin's angry screeches followed her upstairs. She had to admit, she'd never been more grateful for Patrick wanting to be involved with their daughter's life.


End file.
